Chapter 330: Both sides reveal all their trump cards, Portugal sounds the horn of counterattack

No shouting, no venting.

But it was precisely this icy calmness that was more powerful than any roar.

Georgina in the stands let out a long, trembling sigh of relief.

Mini Ronaldo jumped up and swung his little fists forcefully.

The smug smile on the face of the FA chairman, who had been greedy in the VIP seats, had long since turned stiff and unsightly.

The goal provoked Spain and also stabbed him.

On the sidelines, Spain’s coach De la Fuente shouted at the crowd, signaling Yamal to return to his familiar right flank to strengthen the attack.

But at this moment, Felix was only in Yamal’s mind.

In the 41st minute, disregarding tactical requirements, he once again forced a cut inside from the right, attempting to erase his humiliation with a curling shot.

Felix chased back at full speed, and the two engaged in a breathtaking close-quarters battle at the top of the penalty area.

Yamal changed direction repeatedly, Felix followed closely behind, and with a tough but well-executed physical duel, he forced Yamal out of the shooting angle.

The clearance was kicked out of bounds.

Spain’s De la Fuente was so angry on the sidelines that his face darkened; his genius was completely carried away by personal emotions.

In the 43rd minute, Félix received the ball on the left and cut inside. Facing a double team, he forced himself to take a long-range shot and soared high into the stands.

Then, in the 44th minute, he once again tried to break through individually, but was intercepted by a Spanish defender.

On social media, accounts of certain haters instantly became active.

“Felix is a selfish lone wolf.”

“Wasting two great chances in a row, Portugal deserves to fall behind.”

“You should even see who brought him out.”

But after seeing Félix’s two wild shots and losing possession, Cristiano Ronaldo’s lips curled up almost imperceptibly.

He understood that every time Félix watched an irrational attack, he was frantically drawing the attention and manpower of Spain’s right flank to the left.

And the space he truly needed on the right side of his turf was being savagely torn inch by inch.

Three minutes of added time in the first half.

The score remained firmly fixed at 1-2.

The final whistle blew.

He Wei was simultaneously broadcasting news from other venues.

“France 2-0 Monaco; Brazil drew 2-2 with Colombia. "

“England and Argentina are still suffocating 0-0.”

“None of the four quarterfinal matches were easy. This World Cup is truly a battle of the gods.”

“Can you imagine that the powerful Netherlands and Germany, along with Norway led by the striker Erling Haaland, all fell in the round of 16?”

Players headed toward the players’ tunnel.

Cristiano Ronaldo deliberately took a few steps back and patted Felix, who was walking with his head down.

His lips moved slightly as he whispered something only the two of them could hear.

“Well done, keep the pace.”

Felix suddenly looked up, his eyes lighting up instantly as he nodded firmly.

But the atmosphere in the locker room was so heavy it was frightening.

Head coach Martinez did not lose his temper; he stood in front of the tactical board, his voice clear and steady, and said only three points.

“First, the rhythm and approach in the last twenty minutes of the first half were right, and we kept holding on in the second half.”

“The second Félix continued to pull down the left, Leão kept pushing, and the midfield maintained firmness and movement.”

“Third, and most importantly, believe in timing and your players.”

“The three Spanish midfielders have already run over 40,000 meters; their legs can barely keep up. They were more afraid than we were about the game going into overtime. "

Assistant Pepe crossed her arms and leaned against the door, adding in a rough voice, concise and powerful.

“Spain has given up their pride and has been running all day.”

“Their physical strength is almost exhausted.”

Cristiano Ronaldo leaned against the locker, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with his breath, silent.

But everyone in the locker room was shaken by his unusual silence.

He clearly read the answer he hadn’t said out loud.

In the second half, he will personally take over the battlefield.

The second half resumed with the break.

Spain was the first to change tactics.

De la Fuente moved Yamal directly from the right flank to the center as a shadow striker.

Ferran Torres came on to fill the gap on the right flank.

The intention was extremely clear: to cut off direct communication between Yamal and Felix.

Let Yamal’s creativity and cunning break through Portugal’s seemingly solid central defense.

Cristiano Ronaldo saw through the other’s intentions almost instantly.

He frowned slightly; this was ten times more dangerous than having Yamal continue to fight Felix on the flank.

From the 48th to the 54th minute, Spain launched three waves of attacks around Yamal, who was loaming the center, capable of changing the course of the game.

Yamal dropped back to receive the ball and played a through ball to Nico, but Costa made a heroic save.

Ferran Torres crossed from the right byline, Yamal headed towards the near post, but the ball grazed the outside of the post and flew out.

Pedri took a long-range shot from outside the penalty area, the ball plummeted sharply, but Costa’s desperately outstretched fingertips lifted it off the crossbar.

Portugal’s central defense was almost completely breached.

Neves and Vitinha were exhausted, and Bruno Fernandes was even forced to drop back to the defensive midfield position to help intercept.

Meanwhile, Cristiano Ronaldo gritted his teeth and chased back at high speed from the front court.

Retreating to the center circle, using his 41-year-old physique, his experience, anticipation, and relentless running, he completed two crucial positioning and interference in a row.

They managed to withstand the fiercest wave of attacks.

A shooter who should have been at the very front was now doing the dirtiest and most exhausting defensive labor.

He didn’t complain about the heavy and rapid breathing after each position.

From the 55th minute, both sides entered a fierce, fierce battle.

Leão, Yamal, Cristiano Ronaldo, Nico—stars from both sides took turns showcasing their individual skills, trading blows back and forth.

Goalkeeper Costa and Unai Simón both made world-class saves.

The score remained unchanged on the 1-2 scoreboard, as if it were finely etched into the scoreboard.

He Wei took advantage of a set-piece opportunity to interrupt other court news.

“France beat Monaco 3-1, Kylian Mbappé scored twice, almost sealing the victory.”

“Brazil and Colombia drew 2-2, with suspense left until the very last moment.”

“England and Argentina were still tied 0-0, but England’s Kane was substituted in the 60th minute due to injury.”

In the 70th minute, the referee stopped the game, and both teams entered a water stoppage.

The Portugal players quickly gathered around, their eyes filled with anxiety.

After 20 minutes, it’s still 1-2, and time is like quicksand between fingers—impossible to grasp.

Neves’ thigh muscles trembled uncontrollably, approaching the edge of a cramp.

His run has reached 9 kilometers.

Leo bent over, hands resting on his knees, gasping for breath.

But Cristiano Ronaldo’s expression was calm and unruffled.

Pepe walked up to him, her gaze anxiously sweeping over his right ankle, which was wrapped in thick bandages.

“How is your ankle? Can you still hold on?”

Cristiano Ronaldo lowered his head, looked at his right foot, and gently moved his ankle twice.

Although that familiar, stubborn, sharp pain came from deep within the joint.

But this time, the Chinese divine doctor clearly put great effort into the treatment.

“It’s nothing.”

Then his gaze passed over Pepe and landed directly at head coach Martinez, who was anxiously waiting on the sidelines, his gaze suddenly sharpening.

“Tell Martinez.”

“It’s time for the final assault.”

Without hesitation, Pepe turned and ran toward the sidelines.

He exchanged a brief but meaningful glance with Martinez.

Martinez nodded heavily and without hesitation raised the substitution card to the fourth official.

In the 72nd minute, the new player Conceição replaced Leão, who was already barely able to run.

Leão left the field with his legs trembling, and Cristiano Ronaldo deliberately waited for him near the midfield line.

The two of them high-fived Cristiano Ronaldo softly.

“Thank you for your hard work, brother.”

Conceissan stepped into the arena, his eyes burning with the burning passion unique to youth.

Meanwhile, Spain made adjustments, with Olmo replacing the exhausted Gavi in an attempt to stabilize the shaky midfield.

Both sides revealed their last trump cards.

Conceição’s first touch of the ball made Spain’s defense line tense up.

His speed is different from Leão’s; he is more direct and violent.

And he secretly carries a certain strength and fierceness.

He would drive straight to the baseline with the ball, forcing Cucurea to commit a tactical foul and bring him down.

Portugal earned a free kick down the right.

Cristiano Ronaldo stood inside the Spanish penalty area, looking up at the timer on the sidelines: 72 minutes 48 seconds.

Nearly twenty minutes remained, including injury time.

Enough.

He took a deep breath, as if he had absorbed all the noise and pressure in the court.

When he slowly exhaled again, only cold focus remained.

A free kick was taken, but the Spanish defender header cleared the ball, but the ball landed at Vitinha on the perimeter.

He didn’t rush to hang the ball back into the penalty area, but instead observed for a while.

He leisurely passed the ball back to the center-back, signaling the whole team to steady themselves and reorganize.

This choice drew dissatisfaction from some anxious fans.

But Cristiano Ronaldo looked at Vitinya and gave a heavy, clear thumbs up.

No rush—the last twenty minutes are the real hunting time.

The general assault begins.